


Destiny to Serve

by SparkyMularkey



Category: Magic: The Gathering
Genre: Angels, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Dominaria, Gen, Knights - Freeform, Past Abuse, Vampires, Vampirism, Violence, Witches, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 20:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15614673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkyMularkey/pseuds/SparkyMularkey
Summary: Arvad, Knight of Benalia, finds himself outcast and despised after being forcibly cursed with vampirism. With unwavering faith, he wanders the land in search of a new purpose in life, haunted by his 'illness' and the horrible acts it urges him to commit.





	Destiny to Serve

_"It’s got to be the size of a whale,” the boy whispered with anticipation, tightening his fingers around his fishing spear as he tried to control his breathing. The flow of the cool waters was much calmer on this side of the river, and on such a warm, clear day, he could easily see the shape of what was surely a record-setting trout just under the surface. He checked his grip and raised the spear up to his ear as he took aim, careful to keep the shaft parallel to the ground._

_“Easy now, Arvad. You don’t want to scare it away,” his father warned as he notched an arrow onto his shortbow, glancing over to where his adolescent son was so focused. “It’s a smaller target than you think."_

_“No, it’s a monster. This is going to be the biggest fish I’ve ever caught.” With his foot positioned toward his target, Arvad finally launched the spear forward, keeping proper form as he followed through with his throw. The spear pierced the water and there was a crashing splash followed by frantic thrashing. He ran up to the spear and caught the shaft in his hands just as it began to topple._

_Triumphantly, he pulled the three-pronged spear tip out of the water, expecting to find a behemoth of a fish impaled on the end. What he found was a bit lacking._

_“Oh,” Arvad said, looking at the little trout as it hung there lifelessly. It was a decent size, but nothing extraordinary._

_"Don’t be disappointed, boy. In life you’ll find that sometimes that which you build up in your mind as something grand or meaningful turns out to be far less serious than you think. But a catch is a catch. You did well.” His father drew the arrow back, taking aim at another nearby fish. With expert precision, he let the arrow fly and, as no surprise to Arvad, landed a direct hit. He pulled the line in to retrieve a trout that was far more impressive than Arvad’s modest catch._

_Arvad watched as his father methodically unhooked the large fish from the end of the arrow, placing it in the bucket of water with the others he had caught. He was eager to try his father’s preferred method of fishing with a bow, but this morning’s trip to the nearby river was meant to give Arvad a chance to practice his spear throwing. Not that he needed much practice, Arvad thought. He was already fairly proficient, but he needed to make sure his skills were honed. He had recently been accepted as a shield-bearer for a prominent Benalish knight, quite a high honor. All his young life, Arvad had been raised as a devout and loyal follower of the Church of Serra, and he was eager to begin his years of service to become a true knight of Benalia. Despite his excitement at the opportunity to fulfill his purpose, the fact that he would be leaving his family so soon made this last fishing trip all the more bittersweet for him._

_As Arvad placed his own catch into the bucket, he looked around at the riverbank, delighting in the breeze that blew through the trees and the relaxing sounds the water made as it bubbled and eddied through the tall grasses. He knew logically that it wasn’t out of the ordinary for the weather to be so agreeable this time of year, but he couldn’t seem to remember a day ever having been quite this perfect._

_He quickly went back to his work, thinking he might move a little further upstream in hopes of finding fish who hadn’t yet been startled by their presence. He walked along the riverbank until he found a suitable, shallow spot to venture into. Checking for snakes, he waded into the cool water as smoothly as he could manage, the floor of river rocks shifting beneath his bare feet. He went back to silently focusing on searching for signs of movement below the water, but after some time, he got a strange feeling that it was suddenly too quiet, too still. He glanced over at his father, who had completely stopped what he was doing and was staring at something further upstream._

_His father, though generally kind and understanding, was not an emotionally expressive man. He was large, imposing, strong, and seldom moved to anger or excitement. Arvad had never once seen him visibly afraid. Even still, he could tell by the way his father’s jaw was set taut, his eyes narrowing to mask his shock, that there was something disturbing upriver._

_“Arvad… Get out of the water. Now.”_

_Instinct took over, and Arvad whipped his head around to look upstream, thinking perhaps it was a snake or some other danger. It was not._

_He could almost smell it before he saw it. The sweet, clear water began to take on a rusty, murky hue, changing into a thick red as it flowed with blood. Corpses, dozens of them, floated down the river, bobbing lifelessly. A primal fear rooted Arvad to his place in the shallow water, unable to look away from the corpses as they approached. He could see the bodies of women and children, their torn dresses and flowing hair and little arms billowing with the slow but steady current. There was the body of a man here and there, lowly soldiers, and then he saw them…_

_“The Cabal.” The words escaped from his lips quietly, and he finally took a few steps backwards, almost tripping over the thick rushes along the riverbank, never taking his eyes off of what he saw._

_Wrapped in dark robes, their pale skin gleaming in the sunlight, were a handful of bodies of Cabal cultists. Grimnants and clerics and skin witches, obsessed with death, hell-bent on destroying the peaceful lives of others in their worship of their demonic lord. The Cabal had spread quickly. He knew the war between the death cult and New Benalia raged daily, but never had he seen its telltale sign of decay and tragedy with his own eyes._

_“F-Father, I-” Arvad turned back to his father, quickly making his way out of the water, but he froze once more, shocked to see that his father was nowhere to be found. When Arvad turned back to the bodies of the Cabal cultists, he was no longer a boy, but a man. A knight with flecks of grey in his hair and a beard, war-weary and battle-hardened._

_He suddenly felt a hand grasp his leg, its long nails almost piercing through his thick wool trousers. He grimaced as he looked down to see one of the dead bodies, a skin witch with a shaved head and a mask of human skin stretched over her face, spring to life and claw at his legs. Her undead eyes focused on his and she smiled up at him eerily. Dark blood pooled from her mouth and he could clearly see two large puncture marks in her neck. Those jagged, bloody holes in her pale skin filled him with a sudden, guilt-ridden rage. He tried to push her off of him, but she was unnaturally strong in her undeath, and his arms felt frozen and weak._

_“Arvad.” She grinned wickedly and pawed at him, climbing up to grasp at his arms. “You wretched, cursed thing. Filthy and carnal, just like us!” She laughed in his face, her bloody teeth and high-pitched cackle sending a chill down his spine. “You’re just like us now, Arvad!”_

_“You’re a depraved murderer! I’m a knight of Benalia! I’m nothing like you!” He tried to kick her away from him, but another undead cultist had wrapped his arms around his legs. He thrashed and shouted as they pulled him down below the water. He lurched above the surface, drowning in blood, covered in their hands as more of them clawed at his chest and face. He could taste it then, blood in his mouth, blood down his throat. He screamed and he could once again feel that his canine teeth had turned into unnatural fangs, sharp and heavy in his mouth. “No, no! No! I’m nothing like you!”_

Arvad suddenly opened his eyes, careening back into consciousness. He hadn’t exactly been asleep. He no longer needed sleep, really. No, it was more of a long stretch of darkness that often left him weak from the stifling daylight he hid from. He expected to feel his heart racing after seeing an innocent childhood memory twisted into such a feverish daytime nightmare, and he naturally placed his hand over his heart, but even if he wasn’t wearing the strong and impenetrable chest plate of his Benalish armor, he knew he would feel no such pounding beneath his muscle and bone. His heart lay lifeless in his chest and he was once again reminded of his new predicament: he had been cursed with vampirism. He could taste the drying blood on his lips from the night before, dreading how he licked at it as if to get one last taste of what remained. It made him shiver, sick with guilt at how he secretly relished the flavor.

He sat up and tore off the thick blanket he had used to cover himself, glancing around at the small barn he had taken refuge in throughout the daylight hours. An orange barn cat, startled from his sudden movement, leaped up from it’s sleeping place on a nearby hay bale and scurried off.

“Thank you for your hospitality!” Arvad called out to the cat before it escaped through a hole in the wall.

He could smell the approaching evening air and he knew he would have to remain hidden amongst the hay bales and farming tools of the recently ownerless barn at least a little while longer, just to be sure the sun was fully set. In the meantime, he did his best to remove some of the dry blood from his armor with whatever rags he could find. He scrubbed as best he could, careful to pay close attention to the enchanted stained glass inlay indicative of the armor of a Benalish knight. Despite his best efforts, he knew the rags were a poor substitute for more typical sand and oil, and he promised himself he would clean his armor properly at his next opportunity. He let his gloved fingertips trace the outline of the stained glass of one of his pauldrons, it’s once gleaming panes of crimson now a more subdued, less vibrant hue. Furrowing his eyebrows, he frowned with anxiety from the idea that his new “illness” might somehow disconnect him from the holy Serran magic that had protected him for decades.

Arvad thought back to the previous night, how he had happened upon this small homestead, drawn by the sounds of screaming and violence. The Cabal forces were relentless in their attacks, striking wherever and whenever they could. This farming family, ill-protected as they were at the edge of the wilderness, hadn’t stood a chance. It was at least some small comfort that, while he had failed in his duty to safeguard these innocent people while they had been alive, he had at least avenged their deaths.

Eventually, Arvad could see nothing but darkness between the boards of the barn walls, so he donned the rest of his armor, secured his longsword in his belt, and he pushed the large barn door open with a squeaky creak of its wheels. Nothing but the sounds of nesting birds and evening insects greeted him. He inhaled deeply and began making his way back to the farmhouse. He had one last thing to take care of before he left this tragic place.

The farmhouse itself was an unassuming cottage. The stars were beginning to emerge in full force, and if one didn’t know what had transpired the previous night, the scene of the house surrounded by its humble garden and fields of wheat glimmering in the moonlight would look quite picturesque. But Arvad’s heightened sense of smell betrayed this innocent notion. He could nearly taste the blood in the air, and he was almost completely unbothered by the grisly scene he had returned to. Almost.

He came up to the front yard and saw the father of the family lying face first in the dirt. At least, he would be lying face first if his head had still been attached to his shoulders. The Cabal grimnants had decapitated him as he fought to keep them from storming the small cottage. Arvad couldn’t resist sniffing the air slightly, unable to ignore the stain of blood-soaked earth where the man’s head should be. He stepped around him carefully as he made his way through the threshold, it’s quaint wooden frame doing nothing to indicate what horror awaited inside.

The oak door had been ripped from the doorway at its hinges and now lay splintered on the flagstone floor. The house was a simple, two-room structure with this first room containing an unadorned wooden table, a large basin for washing, and the fireplace with its stone hearth, still warm from the dying fire. A few Cabal grimnants and a cleric lay dead on the floor, their dark weapons strewn about the cool stone. He kicked a few of them aside as he strode past them, stopping briefly to regard the dead mother slumped up against the wall near the bedroom door. She had a simple knife still gripped tightly in her cold hand, a knife that clearly had failed to find its target.

He continued on into the room. It contained a crude vanity in one corner with a personal washing basin, and on the opposite side was a simple straw mattress with a chest for clothes.  Arvad saw the child, a small boy, lying on the ground in a gruesome heap, and across the room in the other corner was her, the skin witch from his horrible dream. Seeing this scene once again brought the awful encounter all back to him in vivid detail.

_Arvad had been walking along this road all night, stepping as softly as he could manage in his full suit of armor. It was a quiet night, far out here in the wilderness with nothing but the insects and frogs adding to the nocturnal chorus. Ever since his escape from the vampire lord that turned him, Arvad had told himself he would head east on a pilgrimage to the holy plains of Sursi, but he knew he was merely wandering, unsure of where on this entire world he still might belong. And he was tired. Exhausted, having not fed in days. He grimaced at the thought of referring to the atrocious act he now felt so compelled to do as simple “feeding.”  Almost as if on cue, his keen senses suddenly picked up a faint whiff of blood accompanied by distant screaming, much too far away for a normal man to hear. Fatigued as he was from a lack of “food,” he immediately broke into a run in the direction of the terror-filled cries._

_He veered off of his original path and pushed forcefully through the thick bushes and heather that lined either side of the road, the stiff branches scraping across his armor and pulling on his tabard. His dead heart was no longer able to pump his icy blood through his veins and yet his muscles still found an unholy strength as he easily leaped over a fallen tree trunk and continued to race across the mossy forest floor.  In just a few more paces, he came to a wide clearing. It was a small farm with a barn at one end surrounded by wheat fields. In the center stood a small cottage with a garden... and a dead man in the front yard._

_Even before Arvad saw the corpse lying before the doorway, the overwhelming scent of blood washed over him and seemed to travel straight to his head. He couldn’t quite describe the sensation that came over him, what it reminded him of. It was almost like the feeling he got whenever he had returned home as a child, covered in cuts and bruises from a bad fall or a fight with the other boys. He would walk into the kitchen sullenly only to be met with the comforting smell of his mother’s cooking, but this blood scent held a far stronger pull. It was darker, more primal, and stirred within him an irresistible urge for more. Arvad forced himself to ignore the freshly dead body still oozing life into the dusty ground and instead bolted inside, smoothly drawing his imposing sword with practiced dexterity as he entered the small cottage._

_Muttering a curse, he discovered a trio of grimnants, dark knights of the Cabal death cult, and the Cabal cleric who controlled them. They all turned to face him, and they seemed momentarily surprised by the sudden appearance of a knight of Benalia with inexplicably glowing red eyes. One of them let out a shout, but Arvad quickly charged at the first grimnant, giving her no time to react._

_He dropped her to the floor with a well-placed front kick to her black chestplate, the power in his muscular legs and back increased from his new vampiric strength. Immediately, the next grimnant charged at him, and Arvad turned quickly to face him with a firm footing. He could see the younger Cabal knight make a sweeping, zealous cut at him, but with decades more fighting experience than his attacker, Arvad instinctively responded with the perfect counter-cut, shoulders pressed back as he used his solid core to forcefully lean into their bound blades. With his scarlet gaze burning into the younger man’s wild eyes, Arvad expertly felt his blade slide up to the weak end of his opponent’s sword, allowing him to leverage the grimnant’s sword point downwards with a simple push. In a instant, he moved upwards with a long-edged slash and the sharp edge found the vulnerable space between the grimnant’s armored gorget and helmet. The biting blade effortlessly sliced through the man’s pale flesh and into his neckbone. In a matter of seconds, the Cabal knight was crumpled to the floor, gurgling his last breaths. The scent of fresh blood overwhelmed Arvad yet again and he glared at the first grimnant as she scrambled to her feet. He couldn't contain the hungry exhale that escaped from his mouth in a hiss, feeling his deep-seated urges build up in his core._

_“It’s a vampire! A traitor to the dark!” shouted the cleric with dark glee. “Kill it! Die fighting! Honor the Demonlord with your glorious deaths as your brother has done!”_

_The third grimnant rushed at him, going for his head with a cleaving slash. Arvad counter-cut again, only this time he stepped to the side and shouldered up to his opponent, reaching for his hilt in an attempt to disarm him. They both shouted and struggled for a moment before Arvad suddenly heard high pitched screams of agony coming from the other room. That was all it took to distract him enough for the first grimnant to charge him from the side and tackle him to the ground, causing him to drop his sword._

_She drew a dark dagger from her belt and held it aloft before attempting to stab Arvad in the neck. He grabbed her wrist before she could land the blow, simultaneously kicking at the other grimant who had been trying to hold him down. Arvad thrusted the heel of his free hand up into the female grimnant’s face. He could hear her nose break and she screamed, bringing her gloved hands up to her injury. He used the distraction to push her off of him, taking up her long dagger in his hands. He quickly stabbed her in the eye, ending her life in an instant before he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his side. The final grimnant had landed a clean hit with his sword, shoving the blade tip deep into Arvad’s side through an opening in his armor, just below his shoulder joint._

_Arvad screamed and cursed at the horrible pain from the blade tip cutting through his ribs.  He twisted his shoulders to look up at the Cabal knight, still holding his sword deep into his torso, and Arvad had just enough reach to firmly grasp onto one of the quillons of his enemy’s hilt. He gritted his teeth and seethed with pain as he pulled the blade in deeper in order to shorten the distance between them. He then brought the borrowed dagger up and stabbed his attacker in the arm. His strength was enough to send the dagger tip straight through the black vambrace of the last grimnant, who cried out in pain and released his grip on his sword._

_Rising with shaking steps, Arvad groaned angrily and pulled the dark blade from out of his own body. What little blood that leaked out looked thick and dark, and he could already feel his wound begin to heal. The grimnant tried one last attack, a hammer fist with his good hand, but Arvad was quick to land a plunging strike straight through his attacker’s throat. A line of bright, fragrant blood squirted from the dying man’s neck and he fell to the floor in a loud crash. Arvad shuddered, yearning for a taste of the blood that began spilling onto the floor, but he instead turned his piercing gaze to the cleric._

_Knowing this was the end, the cleric smiled darkly and spread his arms out, ready for death._

_“I die to honor my lord Belzenlok, the Scion of Darkness, Lord of the Wastes. No other power is greater. Not even your Serra, who died for nothing…”_

_“Loathsome heretic!” Arvad snarled and marched up to the cleric, wasting no time in stabbing him in the chest._ “‘The tools of evil are mere things. And like all things, they cannot last forever.’ That _is why you die.”_

_The Cabal cleric’s life escaped with a sigh and Arvad let his expired body slide to the floor gracelessly. It was only then that he realized the screaming in the adjoining room had ceased. Exhausted from continually resisting to feed, Arvad retrieved his own sword and made labored steps into the next room._

_“Blessed Serra!” he cried out in anguish, unprepared for the grisly scene that lay before him._

_“What a surprise,” delighted the skin witch who was crouched over the freshly skinned corpse of a poor, dead child. Tanned, leather skin covered her face like a gruesome mask, and additional strips of human skin slid over her black skirts as she slowly rose to her feet and she smiled devilishly at Arvad. “A vampire in Benalish armor. Now that is something you don’t see everyday. I also see you’ve killed my traveling companions.”_

_Arvad stared at the stripped and bloody body of the dead child, unable to look away. The skin witch marveled at the blood-soaked, stretchy mass of flesh in her hands, her arms covered in viscera._

_“So supple,” she began, her voice thick with morbid fascination. “There’s nothing better than the freshly harvested skin of a child.”_

_Arvad’s ragged breathing quickened and his fists began to shake. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the exposed meat and muscle of the small body, glistening with red, leaking life. He hated himself for the compulsion he had to kneel down and bite into the body. He hated himself, but he hated this evil woman most of all. The Cabal and their wicked allies had destroyed this family, as they had destroyed him. He finally turned his glare on the witch and he felt something in him break, a flood of rage bubbling forth like a torrent. As a knight of the Church of Serra, he had been trained to battle against his enemies honorably, to make their deaths swift.  Not this time._

_“You…” He let his Benalish sword slip out of his hand, it’s golden hilt clanging on the ground with a crash that echoed into his heart. “You murderous, depraved harlot...” His voice shook. He had wanted to scream the words, but his fury was too great. He could feel his control slipping away until he was finally consumed._

_He was on her in an instant, grabbing her shoulders and roughly throwing her gaunt frame against the wall with all of his might. The thin wooden wall shook with the force of the collision, and she laughed with masochistic glee. Disoriented, she leaned against the wall as she pulled herself up, turning to face him._

_“Hahaha! Oh, yes! Such rage!” Knowing her death magic would be impotent against a vampire, she drew a razor-sharp caping knife from her belt and smiled. “Grant me my final reward, brother.”_

_“I am not your brother! I’m nothing like you!” Arvad roared. He closed the distance between them and was greeted with her knife in his neck._

_The skin witch caressed his face with a dark gracefulness, almost sweetly, only to grasp onto his flesh as she sliced upwards expertly, taking a sizeable stretch of skin clean off.  It fell to the floor and instantly began to rot and liquify, the only proof that he’d actually been dead for months._

_“That’s the last you’ll ever get!” Arvad screamed through the pain and the witch goaded him on, laughing until he wrapped a gloved hand around her throat. His healing was beginning to slow from thirst, and he could feel fire and fury in every fiber of his body, yet he still managed to brutally slam her against the wall once more. He wrenched the knife from her delicate hand and threw it across the room._

_Arvad strangled her against the wall, and despite beginning to wheeze and choke, the skin witch slid her hands up his arms, her piercing eyes wild with fear and joyous acceptance of her impending fate. She ran a hand up the back of his neck and grasped onto his thick hair, and something about her touch brought a dark memory up to the surface of Arvad’s thoughts. They were alone in the room, but he could almost feel the cold hands from his faint memory all over him once more, grasping at his face and shoulders, holding him down, and the dreadful bite of fangs burying into his neck..._

_“Don’t you touch me!” Arvad fought the memories down by throwing the witch onto the floor._

_She groaned and rolled onto her hands and knees, cackling madly as she began to crawl towards the door, but he leaned down and grabbed her hips with a powerful ferocity, yanking her back towards the corner of the room. She clawed at the hard floor, trying to fight back, wanting her death to be a terrifying, delightful struggle. He wrestled her onto her back, slamming her head into the cold ground. She sunk her claw-like nails into his face, kicking at him with her lean legs as she giggled and gasped._

_Arvad was on top of her in an instant, pinning her down as if he wanted to push her into the earth. He wanted her to feel helpless, as he had when this entire nightmarish new chapter of his life began. He could feel his guilt and furor pour out of his heart, pooling in a red rage that spread throughout his body. His vision shifted to vague shapes and movement mixed with color, and all he could hear was the pounding of her heart. His world was resentment and shame and the yearning for absolution, for a reprieve from pain. Mercy, forgiveness, clemency. Anything that felt better than this._

_He let go, feeling the rush of release... and then his vision started to clear._

_Arvad relaxed his jaw, pulling back from the skin witch’s throat. His tongue was slick, coated with a sickly warmth. He felt stronger, renewed, and strangely satisfied. His shaking arms had stilled, and he soberly sat up to discover the deep and bloody puncture wounds in the neck of the skin witch, her dead eyes staring up at him in frozen exhilaration._

_“Serra help me, what have I…?”_

Arvad was suddenly pulled from his memory by the clicking of nearby hoof beats. He glanced at the dead witch, exactly where he had left her from the previous night, before turning to face the front door. He heard the voices of men and the clanking of armor as what sounded like a small band of Benalish troops made their way onto the homestead. He swore under his breath, angry for letting himself be so distracted.

He could hear that one man, likely a scout, was already making his way up to the cottage.

“Serra above!” the man exclaimed in horror upon discovering the headless corpse. Some of the other troops heard his cry of alarm and a handful of them made their way towards the house.

Arvad took up his sword but then sheathed it immediately, determined to show these new arrivals that he wasn't a threat to them. He pressed himself against the wall near the bedroom doorway and listened. He heard the men file into the front yard, standing around the dead body and talking among themselves in unnerved whispers.

“Stinks all the way to Serra’s Realm. Lahad, Rionne, check the house,” a firm voice said, likely belonging to their captain. “It’s late. If whoever or whatever did this is long gone, we’ll camp by the fields and alert the local constable in the morning.”

Two soldiers entered the cottage cautiously, both trying to shield their noses from the smell. One of them carried a torch, and Arvad could see the orange light from the flame send shadows dancing about the main room. He cautiously peeked around the door frame, and his enhanced night vision was enough that he could clearly see the looks of disgust on the soldiers’ faces.

“Everyone’s dead!” one soldier called out, a pained look in her eyes at seeing the dead wife slumped against the wall. “It looks like a couple lived here,” she said to her companion, “I’ll check the other room.”

Arvad stepped back slightly, but he knew there was no use in trying to hide.

“Hello there,” Arvad called out as calmly as he could manage.

“Who’s there?!” The female soldier stopped in her tracks and drew her sword, holding the torch aloft to try to get a better view into the dark bedroom from where she stood. She could only make out a faint shape on the floor. Arvad heard the other soldier arm his crossbow.

“Don't be alarmed. I’m Arvad, Knight of Benalia. I came upon this house a day ago and slew these Cabal murderers for what they did here. I've returned to bury the bodies of this poor family and read their funeral rites before Holy Serra.”

“Come out where we can see you!” ordered the male soldier, his crossbow trained on the doorway.

Taking a deep breath, Arvad raised his hands and slowly stepped into view. “Don’t shoot. I promise, on my honor, I am not your enemy.”

The female soldier lowered her sword ever so slightly, relieved to see the instantly recognizable silver and gold armor of a Benalish knight.  She caught a glimmer of the torchlight reflecting off of the enchanted stained glass of his armor before her eyes traveled to his face. There, she felt her heart drop in her chest at the sight of two eyes glowing red in the darkness.

“Vampire!”

Arvad suddenly heard the zip of a crossbow bolt, shouting in surprise as the bolt hit him in the left shoulder. Luckily, it was deflected off the curve of his pauldron, and he quickly ducked to the ground, rolling to the side to avoid the downward stroke of the female soldier’s sword. The other men outside had heard the commotion and began drawing their own weapons, facing the cottage door in anticipation. Arvad bolted outside in a flash, grabbing the closest soldier and pushing him towards the others. The frightened man crashed into his compatriots and they all shouted in surprise.

“A vampire! Kill it!”

“There it goes! Towards the trees!”

“It’s Arvad the Cursed!”

They had all heard the rumor before, of a former Benalish knight who’d been corrupted with vampirism, but few had ever believed it until now.

“After him!” The captain ordered. “Put the poor mongrel out of his misery!”

They gave chase, but having just recently fed, Arvad outpaced them easily. He practically flew across the wheat fields and quickly slipped back into the forest. The trees had begun to thin out the further and further east he ran, and he hoped against hope that they were still enough to cover his route.  After a while, he paused for a moment, leaning against a large, moss-covered trunk that cut across the forest floor, and he listened.

He could no longer hear the thudding footsteps of the soldiers, but he could still hear the faint strikes of horse hooves against the road. It was no time to rest.

Arvad continued on for a few hours, keeping off the road until he could no longer hear his pursuers at all.  It was now deep into the night, and he once again found the long, lonely road heading southeast. The nighttime ensemble once again filled the space around him. The wind, the buzzing of insects, the chirps of bats, and the occasional swooping wings of an owl. Countless little heartbeats.  And yet, Arvad felt entirely alone. He spent his whole life belonging to a noble and righteous cause, sworn to protect the poor and innocent people of his home, only to now be hated and pursued like a predatory animal. His life’s mission had once been so clear, but it had been torn from him. His purpose had been bled from his body in a torrent too strong and fast for him to stop, leaving him hollow.

“What am I supposed to do?” Arvad asked to no one in particular, his steps slowing. It was then that he spotted a wayside shrine up ahead on the right. This wasn’t a heavily travelled road, and so it felt fortuitous to him that such a humble symbol of the church he was sworn to serve should find him like this.

He made for the shrine as a castaway might paddle towards a lone cay. The wooden structure was simple yet generous, almost a chapel in and of itself, albeit a chapel for one. In the center of the shrine, up on a small shelf, sat a statuette of Serra herself. Above the shrine was a small canopy, a steep roof just big enough to keep the rain off of a solitary pilgrim or two on their way to the holy Plains of Sursi.

Arvad knelt at the shrine in a familiar fashion, arms spread with his hands upturned in supplication. His deep voice took up the well-practiced verse he had been instructed to recite countless times since childhood.

_“Life’s balance is a star: on one point is Law, and Law must be upheld. If the knots of order are loosened, chaos will spill through. Next to Law is Duty, and Duty must be obeyed. If the frame of Duty is broken, none shall weave life’s fabric…”_

He stopped there, the words beginning to form a lump in his throat. He knew the law. He knew his duty. That’s not why he was there.

“... It’s getting harder.” Arvad admitted, his eyes like embers as he gazed up at the holy statuette. “It’s getting harder to stop myself. I know I’ve been sinful, Blessed Serra. I know that I’ve been without Grace and have skirted the Truth, but I swear to you that I’m not a wicked man. I’m not like _them._ I won’t let this ‘illness’ define me. I…”

His thoughts flitted to the skin witch and how he had brutalized her. The horrible words he had flung at her echoed in his mind, and his arms shivered with shame. The foggy memories that had bombarded him the previous night, just before he killed the skin witch, now returned to haunt him. Faint recollections of feeling helpless, the phantom sensations of disgust and indignation as hands far colder and far stronger than his own held him down as if he were a mere toy… The revolting sting of wet, sharp fangs piercing the skin of his throat as he thrashed in vain against…

“I fought him,” Arvad affirmed pleadingly, “I resisted him, Blessed Serra. You must know that. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want it!”

“Arvad the Cursed! Show yourself!”

Arvad raised his head, composing himself upon hearing the sonorous, booming voice that had made such a demand of him. In his silent heart he knew instantly what kind of creature could command him so, with a level of power equal to poise. He knew and it made his heart ache.

A fully-armored battle angel looked down with disdain upon the vampire who crawled out from under the precious wayside shrine. He stood tall and straight, carrying himself with the dignity befitting the enchanted Benalish armor he was adorned in. But she could see him for what he really was. She could smell the stale blood on his breath.

“Angel of Serra!” Arvad called up to her, raising a hand before bowing deeply with respect. He wasn’t all too surprised to see an angel, this close to the Plains of Sursi where stood the Cathedral of Serra. That she was a battle angel, however, didn’t bode well for him.

“Your nights of stalking the fair countryside are over, vampire.” The angel tightened her grip on her spear, her dark hair flowing in the nighttime breeze, reflecting the cool moonlight. Her green eyes pierced through the darkness at him with an intense scrutiny that made his heart even heavier. “You may have once been a knight of the Church, but I cannot allow you to continue on, vile and cursed as you are, endangering the good people of Aerona.”

“Angel of the Blessed Serra, please. I assure you, I fight against this ‘illness’ with all that I am. I have not once taken the life of a single innocent person. I am making the pilgrimage to the Plains of Sursi to climb one of the great mesas and ask for forgiveness. I’ve heard of pilgrims being blessed with a sighting of a holy mesa pegasus. I thought perhaps if I-”

“The pegasi sleep at night.” The battle angel gripped her spear with both hands, holding the point in his direction. Her message was clear.

Arvad widened his stance, reaching his left hand over to grasp the hilt of his sword, and he gave one last attempt.

“Please, Angel of Serra… Don’t make me defend myself.”

There was silence for a moment, but then the angel spread her wings and dove down towards Arvad, ready to pierce his heart with her holy spear.

Arvad drew his sword, sweeping the blade over his head and holding it there in a high guard with just enough time to mutter one last prayer.

“Serra forgive me.”


End file.
